Caribbean Desire Read online

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS

  Cathy Williams-Caribbean Desire

  Conrad smiled at her mockingly

  "I'll say this for you: you do have a certain dry wit that I haven't found in too many members of the opposite sex."

  "Maybe you've been hanging around with the wrong members of the opposite sex," Emma said, trying to stifle the spurt of pleasure his compliment had given her.

  "'Maybe I have. Would you say it's too late to remedy that?" His voice was low and warm. Suddenly the room felt hot, too hot for comfort, and tiny needles were prickling her skin.

  "Far too late," she replied crisply. Perhaps she was imagining the speculative intimacy behind his words. Or maybe he was playing some kind of game. Whatever, she'd do well to remember that she couldn't afford to let her guard drop. Not for an instant

  · · ·

  It was cold in the tropics

  And it seemed to get colder every time Conrad DeVere looked Emma's way. The feeling was mutual. Emma thought Conrad was the most unlikable man she'd ever met.

  Conrad viewed Emma as a scheming gold digger—a woman who intended to use her position as researcher to Alistair Jackson to part the elderly millionaire from his money.

  Emma was prepared to live with Conrad's freezing 'contempt—he must never know the real reason she'd come to Tobago. But she wasn't prepared for the rush of jealousy that struck her when she learned of Conrad's engagement!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Emma had no idea who to look out for, and she didn't much care. She was at last at the tiny Tobago airport, only a few miles away from her destination, and that fluttering, panicky feeling of wondering whether she had done the right thing was back with her again.

  This time, though, it was too late to do anything about it.

  She collected her suitcases from the carousel, glancing interestedly around her, and then went to wait outside for her ride to the Jackson villa.

  Even if the trip was a complete fiasco, she thought logically, at least it would give her the opportunity to sample something of the West Indies. How many of her friends would give their eye-teeth to be where she was now?

  She looked around at the bustle of dark bodies standing in groups chatting, selling local fruit to the tourists, at the blindingly clear blue skies, at the Technicolor green of all the foliage.

  It was all a world apart from the grey, dismal skies of England which she had left behind.

  She glanced across to the row of brightly dressed, ebony-skinned women standing behind their stalls of local sweets, lethargically fanning themselves with folded newspapers, and thought that it wasn't merely the scenery which provided such a contrast. Even the pace of life seemed slower, as though the warm, sweet breeze made people more easy-going, less in a frenetic rush to get somewhere.

  Little snatches of their sing-song conversation reached her ears, and Emma made an effort to relax, to ignore that cramped, nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach which threatened to overwhelm her completely.

  She had spent the last ten months weighing up the pros and cons of this trip, for heaven's sake; surely she should be feeling a little more confident about the whole thing?

  It would help, of course, if the car would only come to collect her. If nothing else, it would give her less time to sit around feeling tense and queasy.

  When all the flight arrangements had been made, she had been told that Alistair's gardener and houseboy would be there to meet her at the airport. Maybe, she thought hopefully, he was there and looking for her, although that didn't seem possible. It was hardly as though she blended into the background. With her long corn- blonde plait and pale complexion she stuck out like a sore thumb.

  She dumped her suitcases on the ground and perched precariously on one of them, her slim arms clasped around her knees. All the doubts and indecisions that had plagued her ever since her decision to come to Tobago resurfaced with alarming force, and at the bottom of them all was the inevitable question: would it have been better to leave the past alone?

  She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she was totally unaware of approaching footsteps.

  'You must be Emma Belle. I'm here to meet you.' The man's voice was deep, with a lazy drawl and the merest hint of an English accent.

  Emma looked up with a start and was struck by a fleeting impression of height and power. She clambered to her feet, feeling hot and distracted under his scrutiny, and inwardly thinking that the least he could do was offer to help her up instead of keeping his hands thrust

  firmly in his trouser pockets. She bent to retrieve her suitcase, and a tanned arm shot out, taking it from her.

  'Allow me.'

  'I can handle it myself,' Emma said, feeling peculiarly defensive.

  'Fine.' Without another word, the man turned his back and began striding towards the car park, with Emma doing her best to keep pace with him.

  'Could you slow down?' she panted in frustration. 'I happen to be lumbered with two suitcases and two hold-alls. You can hardly expect me to keep pace with you!'

  The man stopped abruptly and turned towards her. 'You did say you could manage,' he said mildly. Emma looked up at him, taking in the hard planes of his face, the thick black hair, the vivid blue eyes which were staring at her with what seemed like more than a bit of superiority.

  She flushed, immediately annoyed that someone whom she had met less than ten minutes ago was managing quite successfully to get underneath her normally calm, unshakeable exterior. Of course, she thought, he had caught her at a vulnerable time. She was tired, nervous and hot. Still, she was unused to being ruffled by members of the opposite sex. especially one whose sexuality was so blatantly obvious.

  He was still staring at her, and she looked away hurriedly.

  'Are you Alistair Jackson's gardener?' she asked suspiciously, thinking that she had never seen a gardener who looked as arrogant as this one before.

  'No.'

  'Who are you, then?' He could be anybody, she thought. There was a latent aggression to him that she didn't like one bit. And it didn't just stop at his physique, either. The man was either in a very bad mood, or else he was simply threatening by nature. Whatever,

  Emma decided that she wasn't going another step further until he explained himself.

  She dropped her suitcases and folded her arms.

  'Well?' she demanded. 'Who are you? I was told that I would be met here by Mr Jackson's gardener. I have no intention of going a step further until you tell me who you are and show me some sort of proof that you're authorised to collect me.'

  'Proof? Authorised?' The man gave a short laugh, his blue eyes sweeping scornfully over her. 'You either follow me, or else you spend the rest of the day sweltering here in the sun.' He snatched her suitcases up as though they weighed nothing, and resumed his walking.

  Emma hurried along behind him. She was not accustomed to being treated like this. Over the years she had cultivated a cool, aloof veneer that commanded respect. She liked being in control.

  'You could at least tell me your name!' she panted furiously, noticing out of the corner of her eye that a few of the nearby locals were watching them, obviously amused.

  This made her even more annoyed. Just who did he think he was? God knew what a fool she must look, stumbling behind this tall, raven-haired barbarian, her hair unravelling from its carefully woven plait, her fine features distorted with anger.

  Not that he seemed to give a damn what sort of impression he was making on the people around them. He continued to stride purposefully away from the airport, obviously confident that she had no choice but to run behind him, making a complete spectacle of herself into the bargain.

  'Your name?' she yelled furiously.

  'Sorry,' the man said without
turning around, and without sounding in the slightest bit apologetic, 'didn't I mention it?'

  'No, you didn't!'

  'I'm Conrad DeVere.' He stopped abruptly in front of a shiny but old Land Rover and began unlocking the boot.

  Emma stared at him. Of course! She should have recognised him! In fact, she would have recognised him if the damned man hadn't been so rude and unforth- coming. He could have been King Kong and she probably wouldn't have known it.

  The grainy grey newspaper print did nothing for him, she acknowledged reluctantly. He was not a man to be casually overlooked. She looked at him covertly as he slung her cases into the car boot.

  Whizz kid in the financial world, heart-throb with women—just the sort of arrogant type she disliked. His attitude towards her only confirmed it. Any social graces the man had, he obviously wasn't wasting on her. Emma climbed into the passenger seat of the car and strapped herself in.

  'I've heard of you,' she said, looking at his hard profile, the strong, tanned hands on the steering-wheel.

  'No doubt you have,' Conrad replied drily. 'And what have you heard from my loyal band of tabloid reporters?'

  She chose to ignore the lazy sarcasm in his voice.

  'You handle all of Alistair Jackson's business interests, don't you? In addition to your own?' In fact, Conrad DeVere's interests were as extensive as Alistair's. Maybe even more so. He seemed to own everything, from hotels across Europe and America to property development companies; even, if she remembered correctly, several chemical plants.

  His face appeared in the newspapers with nauseating regularity. She looked at that face now and decided that she didn't like it. Too sexy. Too confident. Too assured. The sort of face that belonged to a man who didn't really give a damn whose toes he trod on.

  'Been doing your homework?' He switched on the engine, and began to manoeuvre the car out of the car park.

  Something in his tone of voice made Emma's hackles rise.

  'It's not exactly a trade secret,' she snapped. 'Besides, it's part of my job to find out as much as I can about the people I work with. It makes it easier to know what they're talking about when we begin working. Anyway,' she said coldly, 'what are you doing over here? Aren't Mr Jackson's head offices in America and London? Not to mention yours?'

  She glanced out of the window at the picture-postcard scenery flashing past, glimpses of bright blue sea in strips against the horizon, whole tracts of land covered with tall, gently swaying coconut trees. It would have been much more enjoyable if she weren't stuck in a car next to someone to whom she had taken an instant dislike.

  She didn't like his attitude, she didn't like his lack of politeness, and she certainly didn't like the way he had managed to shake her.

  'I'm here because of you,' he said, taking his eyes off the road for an instant to glance at her.

  'Me? Why?'

  'I've wanted to meet you, to see what you're like.' His voice implied that he didn't particularly like what he saw, and Emma's mouth tightened.

  'How flattering,' she said sarcastically. 'I didn't realise, when I accepted this job to help Alistair Jacksor with his biography, that I would be privileged to the onceover by the great Conrad DeVere.'

  His face hardened and Emma felt a quiver of alarm shoot through her. There was definitely something threatening about this man, but if he thought that he could intimidate her, for whatever reason, then he was in for a big surprise.

  'I wanted to see for myself who would be working with Alistair. I hardly expected someone young and attractive.'

  'Meaning?' Something about his tone of voice was making her uneasy.

  'Meaning that I find it slightly surprising that a girl like you is willing to confine herself to life on a remote island, merely for the altruistic delights of working with an old man.'

  'I don't know what you're getting at,' Emma said frigidly, knowing precisely what he was getting at and not liking it one bit.

  'Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.'

  'I'm not pretending anything,' Emma persisted stubbornly, 'and for your information my presence here is none of your business. You're not my employer. Thank God.'

  The car slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road.

  'What do you think you're doing?' Emma's green eyes flashed angrily. 'Could you please get this car going?'

  He turned to face her, and Emma edged away from him, feeling a ridiculous prickle of heat rush to her face. Under the thick black lashes, his bright blue eyes were staring intently at her, totally devoid of expression.

  'Let's get a few things straight right now,' he ground out. 'First of all, what you're doing here is my business because I say it is. Secondly, I don't appreciate your tone of voice.'

  'You don't appreciate my tone of voice!' She laughed incredulously, 'I don't appreciate yours much, either! So we're quits! And as for my presence here being your business—well, excuse me for seeming dense, but I can't see what it has to do with you at all! Or do you normally take such an interest in every employee that Alistair recruits?'

  He leaned towards her, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. There was something disturbingly sensual about him. It confused her, and Emma didn't like being confused.

  She inched away sharply and his hand flicked out, catching her by the wrist. Emma twisted uselessly, finally giving up the fight.

  'All right,' she said tightly, 'so you're stronger than me. But if you think that physical force is going to make me change my attitude towards you then you're wrong. You might be able to play the dictator with all those women who seem to have nothing better to do than flock around you, if the newspapers are anything to go by, but I'm not a member of your adoring flock, so I'll use any tone of voice I please with you. Now, if you'll kindly release me..

  He didn't release her, and Emma felt a swift stab of apprehension. Everything about Conrad DeVere was forbidding, from the taut, athletic grace of his body to the hard glint in his eyes. She wished that she hadn't argued with him. She should have just kept her big mouth shut and politely listened to whatever he had to say, and then just ignored him. It was what she would have done with any other man. She would have treated his words with contempt. But there was something about Conrad that sparked off all sorts of reactions in her.

  'Are you going to listen to what I have to say, or do I have to resort to my own methods of persuasion?' His eyes roamed over her face and body, then back to her face.

  Emma's eyes widened. She nodded. 'All right.' If he wanted to be a Nosy Parker, then who was she to argue? Nosy Parker, she thought, trying to derive some comfort from his diminished status. If only he were slightly less physically overpowering, she might just succeed in believing her description of him.

  What, she wondered, did all those women see in him anyway? Personally, he was just the sort of man she loathed. She especially loathed the way that he was now examining her as though she were some distasteful species of insect under a microscope.

  'I happen to be very fond of Alistair Jackson. He's been like a father to me for as long as I can remember, and I don't intend to see him fall prey to any potential gold-diggers.'

  Emma's cheeks were burning. 'How dare you?'

  'So, if that's what you have in mind, then you might just as well forget it, because you'll have me to contend with. He's already suffered at the hands of one woman after his bank balance; he doesn't need a repeat of the experience.'

  His grip on her hand relaxed and Emma tugged it away, gently massaging the blood back into her veins.

  So he thought she was a gold-digger! The idea would have been ludicrous if he weren't sitting there, inspecting her with menacing thoroughness.

  'I don't know where you get your ideas from,' she said, controlling her temper with difficulty, 'but you're way off target. I heard of this job from a friend of a friend, and I applied. It's as simple as that. If you think I'm after Alistair Jackson's money, then you've got an overactive imagination.' She stopped
to catch her breath, wishing she could sound more nonchalant and controlled.

  'I help people write their biographies, Mr DeVere.' She uttered his name with exaggerated distaste and noticed with disappointment that he did not react. 'So I come into contact with the rich and famous quite a bit. I certainly wouldn't travel halfway across the globe to start my career as a gold-digger.' All right, so she didn't bump into the rich and famous on a daily basis, but the second half of her statement was the truth.

  Conrad looked at her unhurriedly, his gaze starting from the top of her head and travelling slowly down her body. Then his eyes flicked back to hers.

  'I made a point of doing a few checks on you when your application for this job was accepted,' he said smoothly. 'I found out some surprising facts.'

  Emma's heart seemed to skip a beat. She licked her lips nervously, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure.

  He couldn't have found out about her. Not that it wasn't possible, but it was unlikely. Not unless he knew what he was looking for. So, she thought, there was no reason to be worried. Nevertheless, under the folds of her skirt her fists unconsciously clenched and unclenched.

  'Really?' She tried to sound only marginally interested. She couldn't afford to let a flicker of emotion cross her face. This man was no fool. If she wasn't careful he would be able to sense her anxiety at his words, and then where would she be? Apart from being clever—too clever—he struck her as the persistent type. He would dig and dig until all her carefully arranged plans were unearthed and scattered in ruins around her feet.

  She threw him what she hoped was a careless, sunny smile, although her mouth ached with the effort of doing it. Why, she thought, couldn't he just vanish on the next flight out?